I studied her face.
There are moments in life when love becomes inconvenient.
When you want certainty, but all you have is history.
My mother had held my hand at every hospital visit during both pregnancies.
She had flown to Phoenix when I once became sick on a work trip.
She remembered every school play, every birthday, every small detail my children told her.
Could she have lied to me for four years?
Yes.
Anyone could lie.
That was one of the lessons Ethan had recently taught me.
But could she lie like this?
I didn’t think so.
“What happened to the account?”
“I don’t know.”
“When did you last hear about it?”
She thought.
“Maybe six months ago.”
“What did Ethan say?”
“That he had moved the savings somewhere with better interest.”
I felt a pulse of anger.
“You didn’t ask where?”
“I did.”
“And?”
“He said it was being handled.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Apparently that phrase works well in this family.”
Mom reached across the table.
I pulled my hand away before she could touch it.
Her face tightened.
“I’m sorry.”
“I need more than that.”
“I know.”
